Mrs. CPA

We're Goin' to Vegas, Baby!

I know I bitch a lot about TP's pool playing habit, but after approximately 7,964 hours of staying at home while he played pool, being woken up at 2am, and thinking my engagement ring was something from the pool playing store - his team has won The Birmingham City Tournament and WE ARE GOIN' TO VEGAS for the amateur pool playing tournament in August.  I promise if I win 10 million dollars I will not quit my job.

His team had to "practice" (which really mans a lot of beer drinking and cigarette smoking and shooting the shit) on Friday night, and the tournament started on Saturday morning.  Why he can't get out of bed and be at work on time but he can hop right on up and get down to the tournament I'll never know.  Saturday and Sunday, Mr. Cheeks and I were pretty much home alone.  Running wild, playing in the water, running around in our pajamas, and vacuuming.  On Sunday after church, Mr. Cheeks and I came home and took a nap and then went to the pool for a bit.  TP called to say that they were in the finals, and I let him know that Mr. Cheek's eyes were all gunked up.  I thought I would stay up and wait on TP to see how the final match turned out.

A word to those of you who would like to keep your sanity - DO NOT BUY A PAY PER VIEW SHOWING OF THE BLOOD DIAMOND AT 10:00PM AND WATCH IT. Seriously, if you've seen this movie you know what I'm talking about.  It was good, but I can't get the scene out of my head of the evil guerrilla commander shotting the 10 year old up with heroin.   Or them shooting the handicapped man as a "training exercise" to teach kids how to kill people.  It makes me realize how lucky I am that the biggest worry I have is that my kid has pink eye.  Which he does.   And I think I'm getting it too.  Oh, Hollow Squirrel, where did I go wrong??

Mr. Cheeks also had an appointment at the allergist this morning, and we now know he is allergic to egg whites.  Which is fabulous, because eggs aren't in anything, right?  After having to hold him down to get all the skin pricks, we made our way to the regular doctor and waited an hour in the waiting room to even get called back.  We were a little early, but was an hour wait really necessary for a 10 minute appointment?  Plus Mr. Cheeks couldn't get down and run around because I didn't want him to infect the whole waiting room with the pestilence.  By the time we were finished, I called TP nearly in tears.  I had been in the house with little relief for the whole weekend, I had been cooped up in doctor's offices for 4 hours this morning and I had a tired, hungry, kid on my hands, I was hungry and I was going to have to brave CVS for medicine.  The CVS did me in.  So TP stayed a little bit longer at home for lunch and went to CVS for me.   I'm going to find out who had the pink eye at church on Sunday and kick them.  In the shins.  Hard.   

Does your husband think like this?

This morning, I noticed that TP had on his tan corduroy pants.  I'm sort of crazy, but I distinctly remember him having those on his body yesterday.  So I said, "Didn't you just wear those pants yesterday?"

"Yes."

"Uh, TP, you can't wear the same pants to work two days in a row."

"Why not?"

"Because someone will notice and they know you didn't come home and wash them and that you are wearing dirty pants.  Don't you have another pair of pants you can wear?"

"Not any that are as comfortable as these."

Well buddy, I'm not sure where you got the idea that work clothing is supposed to be "comfortable."  Have you heard of high heels?  Pantyhose?  Pencil skirts?  Pants that are almost too short that you keep having to pull down so that your ankles don't show too much? 

You work at a multi-billion dollar company, and if you think that some woman in your office is not going to notice that you wore those same pants yesterday, you are sorely mistaken.

I knew my Mother in Law was a nut head, but failing to teach your child that he can't wear the same pants two days in a row is inexcusable.

I kept whispering "the same pants you had on yesterday, how tacky." as I shook my head, before he left. 

Seriously, who does stuff like this? 

 

Pool Boy

Hello! And welcome to what is possibly the most boring entry in the whole blogosphere...

I guess we all have some sort of hobby that is misunderstood.  I like to read, do taxes, and play on the computer.  TP likes to play pool and Magic Cards.  There hasn't been anyone with a similar level of dorkiness that will play Magic with him, so a large section of one of our closet shelves is taken up by a backpack filled with cards that have some sort of weird character with "powers" on them.  I'm not sure how this whole thing works but I know it involves pennies, dice, and a level of weirdness that is so thick you can almost taste it.  If he is wearing his glasses, the whole scene looks like something out of an HBO special on how not to get laid.   What do you expect from a Math and Chemistry major who's graduate research was in fluid dynamics?

In the past five years, he has picked up pool as his "out of the house" hobby.  Every Monday night, he picks up his pool case and goes to play in a league until 2 o'clock in the morning.  The pool league is second in physical prowess to only the bowlers.   I think the amount of beer and cigarettes consumed doubly outweigh the health benefits of walking up to the table, raising a beer glass to your mouth, actually shooting, and high fiving people after good shots.  They try to make it all serious with scores and standings in the newspaper, but it's only one step above mullets and shotgunning beer. 

On Fridays, TP goes to play pool with his friend, W, again with the coming home at 2 o'clock business.  W has been into pool for much longer than TP.  TP has progressively gotten better and now he and W are almost on the same level of shooting.  An endless source of amusement to W's wife and I is a little notebook that TP keeps in his pool cue case.  He and W use it to keep up with scores of their straight pool games.  There are also drawings of pool shots and the appropriate angle and force which is needed to complete the shot.  They can sit at the bar and discuss a particular shot for an hour.  It's not hard to concentrate with all the skanks running around. 

Last week, TP and W were sitting at the bar and there was a woman staring into her beer a few stools down.  TP and W were writing in their little notebook and they were also trying to figure out what this woman was doing there.  If you are in this bar and not playing pool or waiting on a table, you're out of place.  So they started talking to her.  After a few words they realized what a mistake that was.  She went into a diatribe about men and how "men suck!" And how her kid wouldn't poop in the potty.  (See! I knew I would find a way to throw some poop in there somewhere...)

Then, she got hit by the lightening bolt of sanity, and said, "Hey, is that a pooooooll notebook?  What is wrong with you two?"  And then she paid for her beer and left.

Help a Sista' Out

Take a survey for Mother Pie.  I don't really have any clout, but she needs your help to complete her graduate school project.  The survey won't take very long and you get to answer questions about YOURSELF.  And who doesn't love to talk about themselves??  It's open until December 6th.  You can find her blog here if you want to check it out. 

On my way to the church this evening, I drove by an office furniture place that had a friggin' Christmas Tree up in the front window.  It's not time for Christmas yet. (says the person who just blogged about Christmas stockings...)

The closer it gets to Christmas the more I will get asked what I want.  And I never know.  So TP goes to the mall two days before Christmas and buys me something.  One year I got a fancy diskette holder.  Last year I got a clock radio. (I know.  I know.  Please address all your jealous e-mails to youhavegottobekiddingme@noimnot.com)   So help ME out.  What in the hell do I want for Christmas?  Any and all suggestions of cooking utensils and/or auto maintenece items will be laughed at.  And probably purchased by TP. 

And what does every dorky man want in his stocking? 
   

I Really Need a New Can Opener

Posting those stockings made me think of the first Chrismas TP was responsible for fillling my stocking.  When we were kids, stockings meant SweetTarts, two oranges that no one ever ate, possibly a small peice of jewelry, little fun toys, or twenty dollars to buy records or tapes for your new boom box.  They were always taken off the mantle and put by your "area" of presents. 

TP filled mine with a garlic press, a tire pressure guage, razor blades and a can of shaving cream.  We had to have a "talk" about proper stocking etiquette.  It does not involve kitchen implements or personal hygiene items. 

My Husband, The Pimp

As promised, here is a picture of TP with his winning costume.

I've got big rates, small rates, and hourly rates...

And we're $100 richer.

I went as the-crazy-person-who-got-to-the-gym-and-forgot-when-she-put-on-her-rainbow-
brite-bra-that-morning-that-her-gym-shirt-was-cream-so-everyone-could-see-right-
though-it.  At least it was a distraction from my ass. 

I did manage not to rear-end anyone on my way to the gym this time. 

We had no trick-or-treaters because we are horrible scrooges, (Can you be a scrooge on Halloween?  What's the holiday appropriate term you would use?) and the front of our house was not decorated at all.  I even put our carved pumpkin on the deck, since that's where we would spend most of our time anyway. 

And then I sat on the couch, ate leftovers from TP's office party, and watched three weeks worth of ER. 

(I promise the rest of the month my entries will get better than that last line there.)

Morning Glory

When someone tells you that it would be helpful if you would go ahead and get out of the bed in the morning, would you take that to mean:

A) Get up, look at the clock and realize it's sort of late.  Get already awake baby, do all his medicine and get him dressed so that when your wife gets finished drying her hair she can leave to go to daycare and work (since she has already prepared his bag the night before and mixed up his formula this morning)?

OR

B) Get out of the bed.  Stumble around.  Give already awake baby a toy to play with.  Go in kitchen and get dogs' food together.  Rinse out and fill up water bowl.  Then when wife yells at you that when she said "helpful" she didn't mean feed the dogs, you come in and try and pick out some clothing for the child to wear that "he may not have worn before"?

I'll give you one guess as to what choice my husband made this morning.